


Wait For Me

by Roo5401



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, Depression, F/F, F/M, Germany, Homosexuality, Multi, Suicide, ghost - Freeform, ghost story, romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roo5401/pseuds/Roo5401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A German family  has been scarred by the death of the eldest son, Mitchell. Their other son, Bernie, and daughter, Gretchen, have been forced to nurture their depressed mother without the help of their recently estranged father. However, things reach a turning point when they visit the old bridge, Mitchell's place of death, and find a creature darker than death lurking around them: a ghost. She's hoping for a chance to escape her ball and chain; and she's willing to show her true form, which is far from anything human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> "Patience is not simply the ability to wait - it's how we behave while we're waiting."   
> -Joyce Meyer

Mist and heartbreak surround me as I stand gently on my empty, tattered, wooden bridge. All that I hear are whispering breezes with no secrets to offer. I used to be able to hear the deep grumble of motor vehicles. Other moments, I listened for the voices of snickering teenagers holding hands, pushing each other in the river, drinking, or smoking. Nowadays, there isn't the presence of anything, and all I can listen to are the steady, promising noises from the crickets. It is obnoxiously peaceful.  
  
Gray, heartless clouds churn mockingly at me as I gaze into the sky. The sun has to come out some day. The moon has to reveal itself one night. The rain has to pour some day. The stars have to burst with light at least for a single night. But no. Not a single drop of rain or a single shred of light. How despicable and grotesque. Not even Mother Nature pays her respects to me. The future holds nothing in sight and I am well aware of that fact...However, I keep waiting. I don’t know why, but I wait.  
  
No one has used this bridge for over fifteen years and how tiring is over a decade! A long time ago, the bridge was a place of busy traveling with commutators. I remember them yelling at foolish teenagers to clear the way or else they suffer the wrath. In a blink of a single eye, the bridge was abandoned. Forgotten. Left behind. Looked down upon. I was left alone too without a single tear shed about my existence. All I have is the bridge that is broken and abandoned like me. Who would have thought that the only thing I found things in common with was a bridge? _Ein verdammt Brücke!_  
  
That bridge had a name once. It had a purpose, too. It was needed and it contributed to the everyday world. People didn’t try to fix the bridge as it withered away. Most nails and wood shreds fell into the fast-paced river when it was first let go. Not a single board was put back in place. Not one. I would fix it. I would patch it up until my hands were rubbed raw and started to bleed. It’s a shame that my hands don’t work anymore.  
  
I had a name once. I had a purpose, too, or at least, I thought I did. I was part of the everyday world. When I was damaged, people turned away from me like I was some revolting creature. Couldn’t they see I was still human?  
  
It seems that bridge and I care for each other. And that is all that we need. _Ich will es nur._

I’m still waiting. I know what I’m waiting for. I’m hoping for something that will only happen in my fantasies. But I will wait and see. I am impatient, depressed, but above all, completely boiling with anger, wanting to slit someone’s throat. But I will wait. Even if it kills me.


	2. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Of all the things you choose in life, you don't get to choose what your nightmares are. You don't pick them; they pick you."  
> -John Irving

“Mitchell, don’t go! Please! Stay here with your family. I don’t want you to venture down this path….please,” Mama begged as tears erupted from her soft, milky blue eyes.  
  
 **Pause.**   
Oh no. Not again. I'm having the same nightmare. Over and over again. I basically know all of the plot and dialogue. I know all this, but I can’t force myself to change the direction of the story. I hate to admit it, but I’m scared to affect the story.  
  
The night of my brother’s death is the only thing that haunts me anymore. Spiders and the dark just seem childish to fear. It’s been over three months, but I still can’t deal with the fact that his presence has just...I don’t know...vanished. The house seems _lighter_ almost, like a heavy weight was lifted from the roof. However, the atmosphere remains heavy and destructive.   
  
 Poor mama. She is having it worse. She drives Papa crazy with her tossing and constant weeping. Dad hated Mitchell. Dad hated every single bone, muscle, tissue, and vein in my older brother’s body. Dad couldn’t even call him son, boy, or even the nickname of Mitch. He just called him Mitchell with a tone that made me cringe, but Mitchell didn’t even flinch.  Dad tries to act sad, but nothing can stop the small grin sneaking on his face. I don’t know what to think of my father anymore. I loved him, but now I only tolerate him. He works late on purpose. He only talks to us when we ask him a question. Sometimes, in the bathroom I can hear him thanking God.   
  
My younger sister, Gretchen, has become quiet and secretive. She stares at nothing as her eyes flicker playing a movie in her mind. She forgets to eat most days, causing her to become this frail, malnourished flower. 

I don’t know what I’ve become, but I don’t want to find out. That’s why I covered my mirror with a thick sheet along with the other mirrors in the house. No one seems to mind so they stay. I’m starting to forget what I even look like anymore. I don’t _think_ I have any concerns about my appearance. I picture that I have burgundy-black hair that falls in my eyes and chocolate eyes. Last time I measured myself was about a year ago. I haven’t felt the need to know my height anymore. I haven’t felt the need to do anything.   
  
 **Play.**  
“Don’t cry, Mom. Mitch will stay here with us and he will get better. Right, Mitch?” Gretchen said hopefully at Mitch while holding Mom in her arms.

I remained standing in the kitchen doorway as I helplessly watched.  Mitchell shook his head and slung his backpack over his shoulder. I stared as he sneakily grabbed Dad’s wallet from the countertop.  He noticed that I had witness his minor crime and he winked. I scoffed silently. Do something, Bernie, his eyes threatened.  I kept still.   
  
“Suck it up, Ma. I got places to go and people to see and things to offer. Nothin’ can stop me,” Mitchell replied in a tone that made my skin crawl and my blood boil.   
  
After saying that, he swished saliva around his mouth and did the unthinkable. He spit his disgusting, burning saliva on Mama. It landed on her cheek and the two females gasped. I knew that would happen. It happened nightmare.  
Mama touched the spit on her cheek with her mouth agape. Gretchen took some cloth from the table and wiped off the revolting substance off of Mother’s sullen cheek. This was my cue to step in and say my line. Funny, isn’t it? It is like a play. A dark, tragic puppet show directed by God.   
  
“What’s your problem? Well, other than smoking and chugging down bottles a Marley’s Hangout. Not to mention, your disrespect for every girl you lay eyes on,” I say with a repetitive tone.  
  
He whipped his head toward me so fast I thought his neck was going to break off. His eyes looked like they were going to catch on fire, but like his neck, nothing happened. Before he could say anything, Gretchen grabbed his hand gently.   
  
“I-i-s this true, _Bruder_? Mitch...I don’t want you to be like this….I need you….we all need you...even _Vater_...and Belle. Especially Belle,” Gretchen whispered softly to Mitchell as she dug her head into his side. She was transferring her kindness and warmth to his cold, dark, confused heart.  
  
Mitchell’s fire flickered for a brief moment and then burned intensely. Mama, traumatized, slid her body halfway on her chair and making her other half on the floor. Her eyes stared at her eldest son.    
  
“Don’t bring Belle into this, _saumensch_!” Mitch shouted.  
  
Mitchell strongly grabbed Gretchen by the hair and pulled her hip-length blonde hair upwards. She was dangling and was trying desperately not to cry, a sign of weakness in Mitchell’s eyes. I leap at Mitchell, even though he was twice my size, to attempt to force him to release my beloved sister. Pumped with adrenaline, he flung her violently to the side, slamming her perfect, smooth face into the lower cabinet. She lay motionless. By the time I reached Mitch, she had already been thrown. Mitch pushed me back and I staggered to get my balance. I snarled dramatically. Mama watched in horror as terror swallowed her pupils. Tears drenched her skin and stained her blouse. Her body went limp as she tried to help. Her mind jerked her arms back. Blood was collecting in a pool near Gretchen’s ruined face. Her face, present day, is now scarred and deformed on her left side. She grinned when I covered her mirror. A sad smile, but a smile.    
  
Mitch darted out of the house. He slammed the door and our rickety house shook with fear. I listened as he jump on his motorbike, start the engine, and drive into the night. Soon the echoes of his motorbike faded into the darkness like the sunlight and the sanity. I cautiously walked over to Mama and bent down. She looked me in the eyes and kissed me on the cheek. Her kiss whispered, “ _Ich liebe dich, Berwin._ ”    
  
I grabbed her arms and pulled her onto her feet. After a few steps, she regained her composure. She strolled nervously toward her misshapen daughter, and she sobbed. We all sobbed. Papa would come home with devastating news soon and would hold a physically and mentally wrecked daughter in his slender arms.   
  
Mama whispered to Gretchen, “I’m sorry.”   
  
She scooped up her poor daughter and placed her on the couch. Mama rushed to get the first-aid kit. As she tended to the victim, I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. Every heart wrenching moment cleaning up the thick blood,  a piece of my soul was slaughtered. I plan to burn the rag with my sister's blood. Mama called me in later saying that Gretchen was conscious again.   
I timidly walked in the living room. Gretchen was running her hands through her bloody tangles of hair. The first words Gretchen said were firm and took lots of effort to say.   
  
“Cut it.”  
  
Mama looked at Gretchen confusingly. I looked at her with depressing eyes. I knew exactly what she wanted. Oh, that poor girl.   
  
“Are you sure?” I asked as tears threatened to dampen my dry, flaky skin.  
  
“Y-y-es,” Gretchen croaked.  
  
“Alright, then. Hand me the scissors.”  
  
Mama was still confused. She handed me the scissors gingerly. I sat in the chair and Gretchen dragged her body to sit in front of me, her permanently ruined hair facing toward me. The blood appeared to have burned into her hair.   
  
I cut her hair into a cute bob with long bangs to allow her to hide her solemn, scarred eyes. Mama looked out the window the whole haircut, muttering verses of psalms and prayer. She held the home phone in her lap, hoping for Mitchell to call for forgiveness. The call never came.   
  
When I was finished, Papa came home. He shuffled in silently. He plopped his body rudely on the couch. he listened to the story quietly. He cursed under his breath during the gruesome parts.   
  
“ _Dass Arschloch!_   Thank goodness that Mitchell Bäcker is dead-"   
  
 **Pause.**  
Screaming? Am I dreaming? This isn't part of the memory? What?  
No, oh god, _Gretchen!_


	3. News from the Scythe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Some people die at 25 and aren't buried until 75."  
> -Benjamin Franklin

“Gretchen! Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I asked worriedly as I barged through the door and into the decaying pink room.  
  
Gretchen was sitting straight up in her bed. She started touching her skull rapidly, her delicate fingers combing through her hair vigorously. When she was done, she sighed with relief.  
  
“No blood. It wasn’t real,” she whispered.  
  
“You’re not fooling anyone, not even yourself, Gretchen. It was real. Don’t ever forget that,” I told her.  
  
I knew she was dreaming about Mitchell’s death. Practically, everyone in our family was dreaming about his final day. Who would of guessed that a jerk like him would kiss our minds goodnight?  
  
“Yes, _Bruder_. My apologies. I didn’t mean to scream that loud or to scream at all,” she softly said.  
  
Before his dramatic death, she would have made a smart remark with a devious smirk and if Mom wasn’t around, a few bad words would slip off of her tongue. I sighed and rubbed my hand through my morning hair. Her room was filled with priceless knick-knacks and magazines, ones that she never touched in the past months. She used to beg me to secretly buy them for her. Mama didn’t like those gossip magazines, so I spent what I had on her. Now, they are sprawled on the floor with a dust cloud around them. Three months ago, her clothes were in a neat pile on the floor, but most of them are crawling out of her dresser, gasping for air. Stuffed animals dance around the room. I noticed that most of them were deformed due to Gretchen squeezing them, trying to make them look like her.  
  
“What happened in your dream?” I asked cautiously.  
  
“Same thing. When Vater tells us the news about….Mitch,” she whispered.  
  
I nodded my head, prompting her to continue. She sighed and replied, “ _Sitzen._ This is going to take until Mutter calls for breakfast.”  
  
                                 

* * *

  **Gretchen**  

  
“Dead?! My first born son is dead?! No,” Mutter shrieked, shaking her head in disbelief.  
  
“Our Mitchell? It must be a mistake. Impossible! He just left under an hour ago! How much trouble could he have done?” Bernie questioned, not believing the frightening news.  
  
“How did he die?” I asked, feeling small.  
  
Vater sighed and replied, “At least someone believes me. I found him floating down the river near that broken bridge, the Übel Bridge , already dead. I dragged him out of the water. Water was trapped in his lungs, but oddly enough, his skin was _burned_ in multiple places,” Dad paused for a second as he choked up, “His heart was clogged in his windpipe, like if water wasn’t enough. It was like someone reached in and jammed it up there. I tried to save him, but I was far too late.”  
  
Mutter broke out sobbing and replied, “My God! Why were you traveling down that road? It’s so late and that bridge is so tattered. It's ready to surrender!”  
  
Vater ran his thick, chubby fingers through his greasy brown hair and expounded, “Traffic was so congested on the road. I decided to take another route. I thought that maybe they fixed the bridge. Anyway, by the time I brought Mitchell back to my car, everyone vanished. No car in sight!"  
  
I jumped up, forgetting the pain, and yelled, “Mitchell is in the car?!”  
  
Vater nodded and the family rushed out of the house to the driveway to witness the body of a troubled relative. Mutter fumbled with the door latch, but finally managed to pry it open. She dashed out into the rain and towards the popped trunk. Bernie and I followed close behind. Vater took his time.   
  
Mutter, after close examination, projectile vomited in the bushes of her garden. Vater looked at some thought in the distance while Bernie cried, trying to comfort our disturbed Mutter. I bent down on my knees softly and rested my injured head on his cold stomach.  
  
“Why did you have to leave? I SHOULD HAVE NEVER LET YOU GO!” I wailed as my head throbbed. Mutter wiped the displeasure off of her face with her soggy, raggedy sleeve and hugged me.  
  
She cried, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t of let you get hurt. I should have stood up and confronted him, but instead I acted like a _nutzlos saumensch_!”  
  
Bernie stroked Mitch’s pale face. Bernie was murmuring some inaudible words, probably his apologies and regrets. Mitch looked brutal. His eyes were, unfortunately, still frozen in horror as he was replaying some insane image in his mind. His clothes were moldy and smelly as the water seeped into the floorboard of the trunk. Mitch’s throat was unnaturally enlarged and almost bursting open due to the fact that his heart was clogged in his throat. His chest held no signs of breath. His tongue no longer held a smart, insulting comment. Some of his body was twisted and mangled into different directions. River water swished in his lungs, sounding like the rapid river itself.  
  
Bernie turned away and fell into Vater. Vater held him close and stroked his silk hair. Mutter grabbed a shovel from the garage and dug a hole right in front of her garden. She dug furiously, letting her mixed emotions dig the grave for her. Vater, Bernie, nor myself offer to help. This was something Mutter was determined to do. Alone. She viciously dug. Sweat, rain, and tears dripped off her face and into the hole. When Mutter was done, she wiped off her face and grunted. She was satisfied with her work.  
  
Mutter called, "It is time for my son’s burial. Bring him to his mama one last time.”  
  
Bernie, shocked, replied, “Aren’t we going to have a funeral service for him?”  
  
Vater whispered, “We don’t have the money, Berwin.”  
  
However, Mutter wasn’t concerned about the money. She decided if someone should have a service based on the life they lived and the choices they made.  
  
“He doesn’t deserve one. He might have came from my womb, but never will he deserve such a luxury, or any blessing for that matter,” Mutter said strictly.  
  
Bernie and Vater grabbed Mitchell and carried him to stubborn Mutter. They placed him in the fresh hole in the ground. Before they could place the dirt over the corpse, Mutter spit harshly on Mitchell’s mottled face and muttered, “Gott segne Sie, Sie Mistkerl!”  
  
The dirt was placed over his body and silently everyone mourned until the rain halted. It rained for a long time. Everyone gathered inside and watched the remaining droplets of water wash away the memories of Mitchell. The feelings however, stayed. The lightning struck those feelings and set them ablaze. Our hearts ached and our emotions stirred. I loved you, Mitchell. I still do. _Werde ich immer._

* * *

                                                                                       

"The end," Gretchen said. The nightmare was complete. 

  
“Do you ever dream about when Belle heard about his death?” I asked.  
  
She shook her head. Mama called for us to come down for our morning meal, but we disobeyed and remained sitting.  
  
“Bernie, can I ask you something? Do you think Vater murdered Mitchell that night?” she wondered with a distressed tone.  
  
I considered it for a bit and then answered, “No. Papa hated Mitchell, but hate doesn’t lead to murder. A motive leads to murder. Papa would have benefited from his death if he had motive. All he got was two torn kids and a ruined wife.”  
  
“Yeah, but Mitchell is out of his life…. for good.”  
  
“Mitchell was going to leave the house for college, or at least to get his own place in about a year and a half. Papa could of waited. Papa is stern, but, boy, is that man patient.”  
  
“D-d-do you think we could maybe visit the site of Mitch’s death, for you know, closure?” she asked with her big, puppy-dog eyes.    
  
“Ask mama," I shrugged.   
  
“I thought it could be just you and me.”  
  
“I see. When?”  
  
“Tomorrow at sunhigh. You can bring your friend, Delilah, and I will get Mitch's girlfriend, Belle.”  
  
I hesitated. Before Mitch's demise, Belle was already mentally insane. It wouldn't be safe to place a grieving, violent woman near my frail sister. It was an accident waiting to happen.  
  
“Belle? I don’t think that is such a good idea."   
  
“Belle is also a victim of the pain and she needs closure, too,” Gretchen snapped, her voice cracking from the lack of use.  
  
This was the first time in months that Gretchen raised her voice. Despite this shocking action, I stood there challenging her.   
  
“Fine. Now let’s go eat breakfast before we get slaughtered by Mama," I replied.   
  
Gretchen nodded and closed her delicate eyes. She waved to me, signaling that she will meet me down to eat soon. I hopped off of the tainted bed and shuffled towards the door. I closed it silently and pretended to walk away. Instead, I pressed my ear against the withered pine.   
  
"Headless Horseman morgen bringen Sie Ihr Schwert des Todes fur mich," she whispered.  
  
What are we _actually_ doing tomorrow, Gretchen?

 


End file.
